


Id-ênâdu mashag ~ the birth of madness

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [21]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Afterlife, F/M, Gen, Halls of Waiting, Madness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8837926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Thrór lost his head - in more than one way.A look at the Halls of Waiting and the time it takes for a soul to walk the path there. Based on the Dwarven saying "May is path to the Halls of Waiting be straight" which Thrór's certainly wasn't...rewritten oct 7 17





	

**Author's Note:**

> Khuzdul in cursive, translations in notes. All credit to the Dwarrow Scholar dictionaries and documents.
> 
> Also, I maybe have had Eurielle's(she's the girl singing during the bridge of Khazad-dûm scene in lotr, btw) song Burning Gold on repeat while writing this...

# Id-ênâdu mashag ~ the birth of madness

 

Thrór knew he was dead. He was enveloped in darkness, where he had minutes ago been embroiled in fighting a massive orc. He sent a vague thought to the fate of Nár, his companion, but it perished quickly. In many ways, he didn’t feel that being dead was worse than being alive. It was neither painful nor cold. It was dark, but the darkness was different from the darkness he had walked through in Moria.

He caught himself trying to listen for something in the darkness. It was warm and soft around him, a little like when he used to hide under his Amad’s skirts as a dwarfling, he thought. The darkness felt safe and comforting. It took him a long time to realise what he had been trying to hear. What had unsettled him was not an unknown sound, but rather the absence of a sound he had ground as used to as his own heartbeat. The siren call of the gold was _gone_. Thrór panicked. It had been years, decades even – a century? – since he had first heard the soft song, soothing him after Sigvór was so violently ripped away from his protective arms. He cried. The darkness surrounded him with soft comfort, but the dwarf did not care to be comforted.

Thrór had not wanted her to go through with another pregnancy. With one living born and three miscarriages, Thrór had thought it too dangerous to try again, but Sigvór was nothing if not a match to his stubbornness. He had seen men hewn in two on the battlefield and the sight had not scared him even a fraction of the sheer terror he had felt every moment of Sigvór’s pregnancy. He kept seeing her, pale and bloody, lifeless and still. He had begged the Maker to remove the visions that haunted him, but to no avail. And yet the reality was so much worse. He had been waiting outside, while Sigvór struggled to bring their pebble into the world and he had never been so helpless. He had raged and cursed, brought in the best healers Under the Mountain, and it had made no difference. Before his mind’s eye, he saw once more his beloved’s last breaths. Sigvór had been unable to scream in the pain by the end of the ordeal, her skin clammy with sweat, her face pale and her eyes wide with fear, knowing that there was no more anyone could do to save the life that was leaving her body with every beat of her pulse. In the end, she had given him one last look, and such love shone there that Thrór had known instantly. Sigvór was saying goodbye, losing the battle with her own body. He had railed. He had cursed, had thrown things, had _screamed_ at her, trying to force life back into her still body, before he had collapsed by the bed, uncaring that her life’s blood was soaking into his beard as he buried his face against her empty belly, pretended to hear the heart that no longer beat and closed his ears to the sound of the pebble’s cries.

When the healers handed him his daughter, Thrór had – honestly, although he felt deep shame for it afterwards – asked Mahal to take away the pebble if he would but return Sigvór to him.

Three days later, his daughter had followed his wife into oblivion.

Thraín had been too young to understand, too young to grasp anything but the absence of his Amad and the absolute fury of his Adad. Thrór had been unable to explain the depth of their loss to his son, unable to cope with the grief of anyone but himself.

He first heard the sweet sound at Sigvór’s funeral. He had had her dressed in exquisite finery, gold beads and pearl-studded nets woven into her hair, chains of precious gems around her neck and diamond rings on her fingers. He had buried his heart with her, he felt, as he stood there, a pebble resting in one arm and a dwarfling’s small fist in his other hand, sealed it away along with Sigvór’s scarred face, hidden beneath the lid of her tomb. the best stone-carver under the Mountain had worked tirelessly to replicate her features, and Thrór had been unable to face her stone face, knowing he’d never again see the sparkle in her eyes, never again feel the sting of her tongue when she thought he was being an idiot, never again feel the way she melted into his touch, forgot about her scars when he kissed her.

As the stone slid into place, he heard a single sweet note, ringing out when one of the attendants hit the coffin with a golden bangle.

 

When he stood there again, only days later and watched them remove the lid, he thought he heard the sound again, though this time there was no gold. The pebble was dressed in blue brocade with silver finery, the tiniest circlet he had ever wrought resting on her brow, as she was laid to rest on her mother’s cold breast. It was the traditional way, but Thrór could not stop himself from sliding one of his golden rings off his fingers and pressing it into her little cold hand. Silver was such a cool metal and pebbles should be kept warm, he thought, unable to explain the sudden impulse.

 

 

As the years passed, the song of the gold became slowly stronger. Thrór did not notice at first, but eventually he realised that he was missing blocks of time where he had done nothing but listen to the sound of his gold singing.

It became important to keep the song going, to keep the voices he almost recognised from becoming truly silenced, truly _gone_. Adding more gold to his person worked at first, and he had his royal garb and armour redecorated to suit. No one objected; why should they? He was the King Under the Mountain; he could afford to do whatever he wanted. His beard was weighted down with finely worked gold and strands were braided into his hair.

It was not enough.

The song began to fade, and with it the clearest memories of Sigvór’s voice. More gold was needed, to keep the voices of those he had lost alive. Gold was memory. Even when it began to steal his memory and his sense of time passing, Thrór could not stop himself craving more.

The Treasury filled slowly.

 

Some days, Thrór would realise what was happening to him, but they grew farther and farther apart, and his own voice grew weaker under the spell of the gold’s song.

Some days were clear.

Thraín got married to Frís, the wilful daughter of Hanar, his Master Blacksmith. Thrór approved of the match – Thraín was a meek boy; he needed someone to ensure the nobles wouldn’t walk all over him when Thrór was gone, and Frís was certainly spirited –  though he felt the family was far too close with the Elves of Greenwood ever since Frís’s disappearance between the trees as a pebble. He did not care enough to stop Hanar and Vrís from visiting the Elvenking’s Halls, for they usually managed to garner him favourable deals on foodstuffs and such things that Elves did, he was told. Thrór understood that it was a question of honour to Hanar and his family, and in principle he did respect that commitment to both tradition and honour-bound oaths. If only it hadn’t been those smug bastards who had saved the little one. Thrór did not admit – even to himself – that the largest part of his resentment of the Elves stemmed from the death of his Queen and the little Princess. If they _had_ to go around saving pebbles, why not _his_ daughter?

 

When his first grandchild was born, Thrór had period of unparalleled lucidity. The small pebble was named Thorin, and Thrór felt honoured that his son remembered the name his sister would have used. In his mind, the new pebble looked so like little Thora that Thrór felt intimately connected to the little life. As little Thorin grew, Thrór became the indulgent grandfather he had always known he would be. Thorin would have the best of everything, no price too high. He loved nothing more than holding his grandson, telling him stories and making him laugh, letting him play with the crown that would one day be his.

 

When Frís gave him another grandson only five years later, Thrór was hit hard. Little Frerin looked like his maternal grandfather more than Thrór, but his hair and his eyes were like looking at Sigvór, and once again Thrór felt cheated by fate. Sigvór should have been beside him, cooing over the pebble and exclaiming at their resemblance. Where Thorin favoured silver, Frerin became the golden boy of the entire family, a little rascal in the making, quick to laugh and always dragging his older, sterner brother into trouble with a smile. Thrór loved him, but not like Thorin, he knew, always feeling the need to distance himself from those eyes, those eyes that belonged in a different face, seeing through all his pretences and making him laugh at the sheer joy she inspired.

 

Thrór needed more gold, the beads in his hair, the bangles, the buttons, the chains, the gilding of his armour was no longer _enough_. The song was changing, beginning to scare him with its constant _need_ … but their voices remained, his Sigvór was still _with him_ , and Thrór did not care about anything else _._

The moments where he felt in full control, where he recognised himself as the King Under the Mountain he had been with Sigvór beside him, dwindled.

He barely noticed the birth of his granddaughter, another dark-haired pebble.

 

 

A dragon chased them out and he was faced with nothing but betrayal on all sides!

He had _known_ those pointy-eared bastards were untrustworthy! How dare they deny him his _right_!

 

Thrór raged. The song continued faintly, but he had been cut off from most of the gold.

They wandered; he cursed his brother’s name for the scarcity of the supplies Grór granted their people – he didn’t care how many sacks of grain or the like the Iron Hills could spare, he _wanted an army!_

The song changed in his mind, speaking of the wealth of his ancestors, buried deep under the Misty Mountains.

Thrór smiled.

 

The darkness wrapped tighter around him, turning his mind to images of lying in bed with his queen, holding her close.

 _Are you ready to let go?_ A voice whispered.

Thrór shrank back from the voice, losing himself in memories once more. He was still straining his ears for the song that simply _wasn’t there_. It made him fearful, yet at the same time he felt relief. He did not feel the same craving for more as he once had, though he did not know whether that was because there was no gold-lust in death, or because he was completely naked. No gold adorned his person, so perhaps the song would return when he found his things?

 _The song does not sound here, my son, not for you._ The voice came back, louder and warmer. _You have people waiting for you, Child. Will you wake to meet them?_

Thrór shook his head. The warm darkness seemed to chuckle, though it made no sound. Thrór curled up in softness and safety and dreamed of his Amad. Sometimes he thought he could hear the faintest notes of the song, even in his earliest memories, but he was unsure. It seemed to be fading. When he tried to listen, there was only silence.

 

 _This is a place of healing, my son. The madness that touched you has no power here. Your soul is scrubbed clean of the taint so you may become your best self,_ the Voice – and somehow he knew that it belonged to someone who should be addressed with a capital letter – whispered. _Grief and anguish will be soothed here, Thrór, creating light where once you saw only darkness and sorrow._

Thrór had no sense of time passing in the darkness, but that did not scare him. Unlike the times he had been lost to the gold’s allure, time did pass; it was simply indistinguishable because of the place he had found himself; somehow it was a comforting notion. The darkness did not change, remaining as protective as when he had first found himself in it. Sometimes the Voice would speak, and Thrór would answer.

 

Slowly, his heart reawakened in his chest, though he wept to remember a thousand cruelties committed against his son, knowing he would never be able to make amends for the way he had resented Thraín for being alive when his amad and sister were dead. He wept. The darkness soothed him, rocking him slowly like calming a pebble in arms, but Thrór did not think it strange, accepting the offered comfort willingly, giving himself into the soft darkness that held him so tenderly.

 

Thrór opened his eyes.

He was alone, and still naked. The stone beneath his bare buttocks was surprisingly comfortable and warm. He sat up slowly. The room told him little. There was a finely carved chair next to his stone platform, but other than that it was bare. On the chair lay a blue knitted blanket. Thrór frowned. There were no clothes in the room, but he didn’t feel cold exactly.

“Shy, _inúdoy_[1]?” a loud voice rumbled behind him. Thrór jumped, whirling and reaching for the weapon he was not carrying. He was greeted by a booming laugh coming from a large mouth hidden in a fiery beard more extravagantly braided and decorated than he had ever seen on a dwarf. Thrór gaped.

“Mahal…” the giant dwarf smiled kindly, bending at the waist in a cordial bow. Thrór could only stare. Though he was proportioned like a Dwarf, Mahal was at least three times taller than Thrór, who had been pretty tall for a Dwarf. “You were the Voice!” Thrór blurted, slightly uncomfortable with standing naked before his laughing Creator.

“Mine is the Voice and the Way, _inúdoy_ , mine are the Halls and the Mountains. Mine are the Dwarrow, the Children of Stone.” Mahal smiled, but it was not mocking. Thrór felt slightly overwhelmed nonetheless, picking up the blue blanket – his favourite kind of blue – and tracing the pattern in the weave with a finger. It was familiar, though it took him a moment to remember why; it was Sigvór’s favourite, the pattern she most often used to edge her crafts, whether it be an inlaid table or a silver belt-buckle. “You have been here a long time, Thrór, son of Dáin. Are you ready to join the rest of my Children in the Halls of Waiting?”

Thrór hesitated, holding the blanket as a shield between himself and the Vala’s mild gaze. “Yes?” he asked. Clearing his throat, he quickly amended it to a firm “yes.” Mahal chuckled once more, the sound of distant thunder rumbling through Thrór’s bones. Somehow it was a comforting noise.

“ _Id-medan ôra astû, inúdoy. Adum madimi d’Itdendûm, Thrór. Tadanôn_.[2]”

“ _Itdên_?” Thrór felt slightly apprehensive. Who was waiting?

But Mahal was gone.

Grabbing up the blue blanket, more and mor certain it was made by the hand of his Queen, Thrór wrapped it around his shoulders like a cloak, holding it closed in front of himself.

He pushed open the large stone door.

 

“ _Astû abkânul! Nittal!_[3]” Thrór heard and the next thing he knew, he had buried his face in her hair. Sigvór was laughing low in his ear, holding him just as tightly as he held her. “ _Lâsh, Thrór. Gan azralifizu, amrâlimê. **[4]**”_

 _“Maralmizu, Sigvór. **[5]**”_ Thrór lost count of time once more, but this did not faze him as he stayed buried in Sigvór soft hair. The smell of her, a soft scent of molten silver that always clung to her when she had been working, mixed with leather and something uniquely Sigvór, enveloped his senses.

 _“Azrali astû d’abdukh dai binsaktibi. **[6]**”_ she whispered, after a while. Thrór lifted his head, searching her soft dark eyes. She kissed him, making him lose track of time for a bit longer. He was vaguely aware that he was crying into her beard, but Sigvór’s cheeks were wet too, so he did not care. The taste of her was even more exquisite than he remembered.

“ _Ku’_?” he asked, feeling quite overwhelmed just by being at her side once more, not entirely certain he wanted to share her with anyone else just yet. Sigvór smiled, the scar on her face making it into an achingly familiar lopsided snarl. Thrór traced her face wonderingly, committing the lines of her face to memory once more.

“Someone who has been waiting for you for many years, my love.” Sigvór took his hand and walked over to a door he hadn’t noticed before. She knocked thrice on the stone. The door opened. Thrór’s breath caught in his throat. Her dark hair was just like his, though she shared Sigvór’s dark eyes rather than his Durin-blue, but he recognised her instantly, staring in disbelief.

The dwarrowdam on the other side of the door smiled uncertainly. “Hello, Adad.” Thrór’s arm tightened around Sigvór’s, but he reached out his free hand to the vision before him.

“ _Gan mamuhmâ abnâm, amrâlimê,_[7]” he whispered hoarsely. Sigvór squeezed him gently round the middle, startling Thrór out of staring at his adult daughter. “Thora… ‘ _unathê_ …” he murmured. Thora took his hand and brought it to her cheek, tears sliding down her smiling face. With a soft sound, Thrór caught her round the waist and brought her hard against his chest. Sigvór wrapped her arms around both of them.

 

 

[1] Son / my boy – this word is not neo-khuzdul, but if Mahal can’t use words from archaic/ancient khuzdul, who can, really ;)

[2] The door is behind you, son. I welcome you heartily to the Halls of Waiting, Thrór. They are waiting.

[3] You are awake! Finally!

[4] Oh, Thrór, I have missed you, my love.

[5] I love you, Sigvór

[6] I want you to meet someone(f) you don’t know.

[7] We have created beauty, my love.


End file.
